


Wreck of Memories

by Morgan (morgan32)



Category: Hercules: The Legendary Journeys
Genre: Angst, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-08
Updated: 2009-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:19:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgan32/pseuds/Morgan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following a shipwreck, Iolaus is captured by Caesar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for all my friends on HIBL, with special thanks to Ruric, who supplied me with the uncut version of the episode which inspired this story.

"Iolaus."

The word rang out across the deck of the ship. Caesar studied his prisoner with mild curiosity. The Greek's hair was wet through and plastered to his skull. Likewise his leather trousers, clinging to firm muscled legs, were waterlogged and shining with the moisture. His only other clothing — if you could call it that — was the green stone medallion that rested on his chest. It was the medallion that confirmed the prisoner's identity. Caesar remembered it well.

He had heard stories of this man. The companion and friend — some said the lover — of the celebrated Hercules. His lover? The thought was intriguing and he found himself studying Iolaus more closely. His eyes took in the man's body. Stray seaweed clung to his exposed flesh; beneath that his skin was tanned golden. His compact form revealed a wiry strength in the muscles and the Greek's ass was lovely and rounded. Yes, a man could find much pleasure in that.

He walked slowly around his prisoner, taking note of some half a dozen minor wounds. Even with his hands bound, the Greek held himself like a warrior, standing straight and alert on the rolling deck. Their eyes met as Caesar completed his circuit and the prisoner returned his gaze boldly, blue eyes sparkling with defiance.

"Iolaus," Caesar repeated, more softly.

Iolaus relaxed a little. "The last time we met," he offered, "you were a mere centurion."

"And now … ?" Caesar left the question hanging.

"I don't know. What have you become, Caesar?" _A blood-drenched megalomaniac_, Iolaus thought, but had enough sense to keep the thought to himself. His position here was not exactly a strong one.

"The next ruler of the Known World," Caesar told him, confirming Iolaus' unspoken thought. "While you … " he looked his prisoner up and down with obvious contempt, "became a demigod's catamite. To each his own."

Iolaus' eyes narrowed at the deliberate insult but he said nothing. Caesar was about to signal the soldiers to take the Greek away when Iolaus spoke: "Were there … " his voice cracked and he cleared his throat " … any other survivors?"

Caesar glanced at the soldier, who shook his head slightly.

Iolaus waited, his weight shifting slightly with the movement of the deck. His body, already driven past endurance, was not going to support him much longer.

The question was obviously important to him.

"Only one," Caesar answered him. He was rewarded by the briefest glimpse of pain and shock in the Greek's eyes before the emotion was covered up. With a wave of his hand he dismissed the prisoner from his presence, and from his thoughts.

***

The brig of Caesar’s ship was barely big enough to house the rats. A hole, at most six feet square, accessed through a barred hatch on the deck. Iolaus was shoved none too gently down through the hatch. After hours spent clinging to driftwood in the water, he was too tired to keep his balance as he fell. He landed awkwardly, an involuntary yell escaping as pain shot up his leg.

"Iolaus? Are you all right?"

He looked up at the voice. The light tenor wasn't the voice he had been expecting to hear. For a moment, his eyes adjusting to the dimmer light, he didn't recognise the speaker. Then he did. Temon, the youngest of the sailors that had been aboard their ship.

"Yeah," he groaned, sitting up and shifting his body into a reasonably comfortable position. "I'm fine," he lied. Gingerly he rubbed at his right ankle. It was already swelling. He hoped it wasn't broken.

Was this it? Him and Temon. No one else at all survived? Iolaus couldn't believe it. It wasn't possible.

Hercules had been on that ship.

***

_Iolaus had been hauling on the halyard with all his strength, trying desperately to stay on his feet as the wind howled around him. Spray struck his bare flesh like a hundred cruel needles, but Iolaus ignored the pain: he **had** to raise that sail. They all knew the risk: the wind was strong enough to uproot the mast, but if they couldn't get the sail up they were going straight for the rocks._

_He found he was shouting incoherently with the effort._

_Then, as another wave washed across the deck and his feet slipped again on the water, he felt the iron stability of Hercules' body at his back, and the welcome warmth of the demigod's hand as it closed over the rope just above his own. Working together, they hauled the tops'l into position. Iolaus, ever agile, bounded over to the post and secured the halyard in place._

_As they turned toward the bow, they could see that it was working. The violent wind billowed the sails as the captain held the wheel hard to port, steering the ship away from the rocks that had almost claimed her._

_Iolaus started to turn around, a wide grin of relief lighting his face. As he turned, he slipped again. Hercules caught him, lifting him bodily off the deck before he set him down again, holding the smaller man within the circle of his arms. Iolaus forgot their danger for a moment, leaning into Hercules' warm embrace. His eyes closed briefly. It was a rare gift for the demigod to be publicly demonstrative._

_Then again, why shouldn't he? After last night, there couldn't be anyone on board who didn't know they were lovers. That could have been embarrassing if it hadn't been so much fun. Iolaus couldn't help himself: he giggled at the memory._

_Hercules' big hands rested on the hunter's belt for a moment and his lips just grazed his neck. "You okay?" he asked._

_Iolaus nodded happily._

_"Right then." Hercules straightened, releasing Iolaus as the wind caught his hair again. "Back to work."_

_Iolaus raised a hand, shielding his eyes from the wind and spray as the protection the demigod's broad body had provided was withdrawn. He looked out across the wild sea. The waves were so high … it would have been exhilarating if it wasn't so frightening. And suddenly that danger paled into insignificance as Iolaus' eyes focussed on something else._

_"Hercules!" he shouted._

_Hercules was at his side at once, looking where the hunter pointed. They both saw it. A whirling spout of water rising out of the sea, almost the height of the ship's mast. And the ship was headed straight for it._

_The demigod rushed for the tiller. Iolaus saw what he planned to do: try to steer the ship away, but it wasn't going to work. Even if Hercules could turn the wheel without breaking the rudder, the wind had already caught the sails. The best they could hope for would be to broadside the spout._

_Neither of them was the type to give up without a fight, however. Whether this was a sending of Poseidon or simply dreadful luck, they would both keep trying until the ship went down._

_The next few minutes were filled with useless activity. Iolaus lost sight of his lover as he worked with the sailors to turn the sail: even just a little would be enough. The wind roared around them and they could barely see for the spray, but they kept on battling against the elements._

_Then the sail broke loose from the rigging. A poor rope? Rotten timbers? They would never know. Iolaus, hauling on the rope in the moment the sail tore free, was thrown backward. He slid across the deck on his back, totally unable to help himself, unable to do anything but hang on and hope. His body slammed into the scuppers. For a moment he was still, catching his breath. Then the wild swell of the waves lifted the ship again, just as the waterspout hit._

_Iolaus' last memory was of being lifted bodily into the air by the wind, still clinging on to that useless rope. Then seeing the water rush toward him as he fell. He had only the sketchiest idea of what had happened after that. He remembered searching for Hercules among the wreckage of the ship, choking on seawater and shouting the demigod's name until his throat was raw. He remembered clinging to an oar he found floating on the surface of the water, certain that he was going to die. He remembered the wind dying down with eerie suddenness._

_Hours later, Caesar’s ship had come by and he had been rescued from the killing sea._

***

Caesar’s cabin below the quarterdeck was not large, but it was luxurious. Iolaus noted details — the bowl of fresh fruit on the table in front of Caesar, the silk hangings in imperial purple — without interest. He was busy trying to ignore the pain in his sprained ankle. Caesar’s men had dragged him out of the brig with no warning, and brought him in here. They led him to a support pillar and tied him there, with his hands bound together, high above his head.

"Leave us," Caesar ordered curtly, and the men obeyed.

Left alone with Caesar, Iolaus wondered what he should do. Did he dare remind Caesar of the past? He had heard so much of this man in recent years, it was hard to know how he might react. He decided to take the risk.

Trying to ignore the fact that he was tied up, Iolaus put on a friendly voice. "What's going on, Julius?" he asked.

I haven't decided yet." Caesar rose from his seat and walked around the table, slowly approaching his bound prisoner. "Was Hercules aboard your ship?" His hand stroked gently down the side of Iolaus' face.

Iolaus pulled away from his touch, saying nothing. He didn't know what interest Caesar might have in Hercules, but he was certain it wouldn't be good. Yet his resolve, it seemed, was for nothing.

"I think he was," Caesar decided. "I saw your face when you asked about survivors. _Someone_ you care about was on the ship." He ran a fingertip down the prisoner's bare spine.

Still, the hunter refused to speak. It would take more than a hurricane to kill Hercules.

"You're probably not worried," Caesar guessed. "He's half a god. Probably immortal. Just because we didn't haul him out of the sea doesn't mean he drowned. Right?" His hands rested on Iolaus' belt buckle.

Iolaus' eyes widened before he remembered to cover up the expression. How could this man read his thoughts so clearly? He tried to ignore what Caesar was doing to him, physically.

"So…" the Roman went on, "it's only a matter of time, isn't it? He'll come looking for you." His voice took on a tone of sarcasm as he added, "I'm sure a man such as Hercules could easily defeat the men I have with me. All you have to do is survive until he arrives to save your butt. Correct?"

Iolaus was silent, but the defiance in his eyes answered Caesar as clearly as words.

Hands deftly undoing his belt and codpiece. Lips gently grazing his neck. Iolaus tried to pull away, but he was bound in place. He could barely move. "Julius…don't," he pleaded.

"Iolaus," Caesar said softly. His mouth was so close to Iolaus' ear he could feel the warmth of his breath. He could feel, too, the heat of the Roman's body against his back. "Do you remember?" Caesar asked him. "That night in the Persian oasis? The lights along the water's edge, the warmth of the fires … "

_The weeping of the women whose husbands and sons your legion crucified_, Iolaus added mentally. But he couldn't say it. Because he _did_ remember.

He remembered how dead he had felt the year he had sailed away from Greece. The tragic deaths of his wife and son had driven him away from his land and friends. Even Hercules and Deianeira had been unable to do anything but remind him of his loss. He had travelled east, searching for a reason to live, never expecting to find what he needed. He had been taken captive in Persia: a group of nomad slavers. Iolaus remembered the night of the battle: a battle he had neither expected nor understood, and he remembered the young centurion who had saved his life during that battle. He remembered the night Caesar spoke of, when in the arms of a man he barely knew he had finally chosen life …

Iolaus' trousers slipped down to his knees. As Caesar’s touch became more intimate, he tried again to pull away. "Don't." He yelped at the sudden pain as Caesar’s fingers jabbed into his thigh muscle.

"What makes you think," Caesar asked him, "I'm giving you a choice?"

Iolaus went cold. "Is that what you've become?"

"You don't seem to understand that you're a prisoner, Iolaus. You're not of any use to me. You don't have any information I need, and even if you did, I don't have time to break you. We'll be making port soon." He was stroking Iolaus slowly as he spoke.

Iolaus gritted his teeth, desperate not to respond to him.

"All you are is a waste of food and water, Iolaus. I can't let you go. I suppose it would be simplest to kill you."

"You just love the sound of your own voice, don't you?" Iolaus muttered.

The solid impact of a blow across his face. Iolaus heard a crack as his head slammed into the pillar he was bound to. He saw stars. He caught his breath, anticipating another blow.

But Caesar was still speaking. Iolaus realised he had missed a chunk of whatever the Roman was saying. He didn't care.

"Your choice, Iolaus," Caesar concluded. "Live or die?"

The same choice he had made before, so long ago with this man. But it wasn't the same. Iolaus twisted around, trying to look at Caesar, searching for something familiar in those dark eyes, for _something_, any remnant of the centurion he had known. Iolaus knew Caesar had changed — he had been acutely aware of Caesar's many conquests, and had heard stories, not least from Xena, about the nature of the man. He had kept silent through all of it, not even telling Hercules of their shared past. It had been something private, and precious.

Hercules …

He _had_ to be still alive. He had to be. There was a part of Iolaus that wanted to live, whatever the cost, because that was the only way he might find his lover again. But _this_ cost? It was clear what Caesar expected from him, and love had no place in it.

And there was Temon, too. Caesar hadn't mentioned the young man, but nevertheless the threat was there, unspoken. If Caesar chose to kill Iolaus, he would kill Temon, too.

Caesar’s hands were on his bare ass now. Instinctively, Iolaus twisted away. "No!" he snapped.

But it was already too late. Iolaus couldn't fight, he was held fast. All he could do was brace himself for the pain, feeling the tight grip of the Roman's hands on his flesh, his heavy breathing so close to Iolaus' ear. He kept his mouth shut, determined not to give Caesar the satisfaction of a single sound.

Physical pain Iolaus could handle. But this was so much more than physical. It was the anger at his utter helplessness, despair. Betrayal. Betrayal was the worst, for the man who abused him now was a man he had held dear in his memory for years. A man to whom he had given what was now being taken. The wreck of his memories was the thing that finally tore the cry from his lips, the first expression of an agony born not of his torn flesh, but from his heart.

The worst wounds didn't show.

Iolaus hit the floor of the brig and lay still. For how long, he wasn't sure. He was aware of Temon examining his head and body for wounds, but the inexperienced lad didn't know what to look for. Iolaus was barely conscious. His wrists were raw and bleeding, his lower lip was swollen and torn: he had bitten right through the flesh. He couldn't have stood up if he had wanted to. But the worst of his injuries was covered by his trousers.

His amulet was gone.

Caesar had kept that, in token, so he said of his power over Iolaus. He had told Iolaus he owned him, body and soul.

Iolaus had turned to him then, and stared him straight in the eyes. "You will get nothing from me that you don't take," he had told the Roman. His torn lip mangled the words, but Caesar had clearly understood him.

The Roman leader's hand, mockingly gentle, rested against his prisoner's cheek. With his thumb he wiped away a tear that escaped Iolaus' eye. His voice soft as velvet, he had replied, "I will take _everything_."

Iolaus believed him.

He struggled into a sitting position as Temon tore his own clothing to bandage Iolaus' wrists.

"What happened?" Temon asked tentatively.

There was a long silence before Iolaus answered. "Caesar … " His voice was a croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. "We have a history, Caesar and I. He wanted to renew acquaintances." His mouth twisted bitterly. "Thanks," Iolaus said to Temon as he tied off the bandage. It was already stained with blood. The wounds on his wrists should have been cleaned properly, but they had no way to do it.

"What will happen to us?" Temon asked.

Iolaus met the young sailor's eyes. He couldn't have been older than twenty and looked younger. The kid was scared, but Iolaus didn't have any comfort to offer.

"I don't know," he said.

***

Caesar waved a hand, dismissing the servant. He sat back in his throne-like chair. The first battle had gone well and the town was his. With the first day's fighting over, Caesar had moved his centre of operations off the ship. He had selected this building, the town's largest inn, as his headquarters for its central location. It had the added advantage of comfort. Everything was going according to plan.

His dark eyes moved over the tableau before him. The young prisoner was naked, but for his chains and the strip of cloth that covered his mouth. He had been chained upright with his face to the wall, his arms stretched high above his head, his dark hair loose about his shoulders. The man's body was lean, his smooth skin darkened by the sun but otherwise unmarked. It wouldn't stay that way for long. All in all, he was an agreeable sight, but not exceptional. No matter. Caesar wasn't planning to touch this one.

Two men, trusted warriors who were familiar with Caesar’s entertainments, waited either side of the chained man. One of them held a long, chariot-driver's whip, made of woven leather with a thick, wooden handle.

Caesar’s head turned to the door as it opened. Now it would begin.

Iolaus entered the room between two guards, still limping slightly. His wrists were secured in iron manacles, with a length of chain between them that gave him some freedom of movement, but marked him clearly as prisoner or slave. He refused to look at Caesar, his eyes instead taking in the rest of the room. A curtain hung from ceiling to floor on one side of the room; it could have covered bare wall, but its movement suggested to Iolaus that there was more space behind it. He noted Caesar’s throne with cynical amusement: for the leader of a democratic republic the Roman lived remarkably like a king. Then he saw the waiting warriors and their prisoner. He felt sick.

_Temon. Oh, gods, no. Not him. _The young sailor was chained and helpless, as Iolaus himself had been the previous night. Remembering that night, it was all the hunter could do to stay outwardly calm. His ass still hurt from Caesar’s repeated violation. The image of Caesar doing _that_ to Temon was horrifying. That it was obviously what he was supposed to be thinking wasn't reassuring. Iolaus turned his eyes to Caesar, unable to conceal his fears. For both of them.

Caesar returned Iolaus' look calmly. Now _his_ was an exceptional body. Sleek, compact and golden, the Greek warrior was like a gift from the gods. Unfortunately, though, he had a flaw. Iolaus _knew_ Caesar. The Greek was a face from his past and he seemed to think that their time together meant something. His familiarity proved that: he had not feared Caesar. Now he did, and that was good.

There was, however, something more. Since his men pulled Iolaus from the shipwreck, Caesar found himself thinking more and more of the past. They had known each other for no more than three weeks, in Persia. But for a certain Roman centurion, just beginning to dream of future greatness, that time had been special and he had been absurdly pleased when he recognised his prisoner. Such foolish sentimentality had to be beyond Caesar now. Nostalgia was for those who had no future and fine feelings had no place in his destiny.

The Greek represented the last remnant of what Caesar perceived as his own weakness. He had loved this man and admired him for his compassion and idealism. For that reason, Caesar had to destroy him. To crush his spirit utterly before he died. It was a long time since he had enjoyed such a challenge.

Iolaus' look of fear quickly hardened into anger. "Is this how you get your kicks, Caesar?" he challenged, his voice pitched to carry. "Does it make you feel powerful to beat a helpless prisoner?" _But what,_ Iolaus wondered, even as the words left his mouth, _am I doing here? Gods, shut up, Iolaus. Don't make this worse for Temon …_

If Caesar gave a signal, Iolaus never saw it. The long whip cracked. Temon shouted in pain, his cry muffled by the cruel gag. And Iolaus was struggling against the guards who held him. A line of red stood out starkly against the skin of Temon's buttocks. As Iolaus looked, helpless, blood welled from the wound, trickling down over his ass and leg.

Iolaus turned back to Caesar, hatred blazing from his eyes. Wisely, though, he said nothing. Caesar met his eyes and Iolaus read the warning there.

"You hate me now," Caesar said flatly. "I'm so pleased, Iolaus. This wouldn't be any fun if we were good friends." The Roman rose slowly from his chair. "Strip," he ordered.

Iolaus stared back, hardly able to believe what he was hearing. _So you can rape me again, you bastard? I don't think so._

The likelihood of his rebellion didn't seem to have occurred to Caesar’s guards, who released their hold on him at Caesar’s signal. Immediately Iolaus attacked, punching the guard on his left with his chained hands while almost simultaneously kicking out to the right. As the guard went down, for a breathless moment Iolaus thought he might succeed in getting away. Then the other man caught the chain that dangled between his manacles and yanked hard, making Iolaus lose his balance. He heard the rasp of steel being drawn and before he even knew what was happening the blade was at his throat. After an instant's hesitation Iolaus yielded; he wasn't ready to die. The guards pulled him up onto his knees and kept him there, held securely between them once more.

"That," Caesar told him, "was stupid." He nodded to the warrior holding the whip.

Iolaus was prepared for pain.

But the warrior laid the whip across Temon's back, not Iolaus. Five lashes, delivered slowly and with precision, each a separate event. A separate muffled scream. Iolaus renewed his struggles against the hands that held him, but in vain. They wouldn't let him get free a second time.

"He's very skilled," Caesar commented, when it was over. He walked over to the bound prisoner, running a finger along one bloody gash. "Note the pattern of the stripes, Iolaus. The lash never falls in the same place twice." He held up his hand in front of Iolaus' face, red blood shining on one fingertip. Then he deliberately stroked that finger across Iolaus' cheek. "That's six," he said. "Most men pass out at twelve. Shall we see how long the boy can last?"

Iolaus twisted away from Caesar’s touch. "You bastard! Why are you doing this?"

Caesar looked toward Temon again.

"No!" Iolaus shouted.

His protest was ignored. Two more cracks of the whip. Temon twisted in his chains, but to no avail.

"Eight," Caesar noted dispassionately.

Iolaus forced himself to look at the young man's bloody back. Whatever sick power game Caesar was playing, Temon shouldn't have been a part of it. Power… Was that it? Was that what Caesar wanted?

Steeling himself, he looked up at the Roman. "Caesar, tell me what you want. Please. Whatever is going on, it's between you and me. Leave him out of it."

He saw a smile cross Caesar’s lips before the man replied. "Your compassion, as always, is your downfall, Iolaus." His hand stroked down the hunter's face, lifting his chin. "Will you do what I want, when I ask it? Just to save the boy some pain?"

Iolaus felt himself blanch as he realised what Caesar was asking of him. _You will get nothing from me that you don't take,_ he remembered saying. And Caesar’s reply, _I will take everything._

Iolaus couldn't answer. Didn't dare answer no, couldn't bear to answer yes.

He heard the crack of the whip again. Saw Temon react, flinching away from the pain before he collapsed, held upright only by the chains. He looked at Caesar’s impassive face. _He's enjoying this. How can this be happening? He's forcing me to make a choice but there's no choice to make. If I refuse, he'll beat Temon to death and then take me anyway._

"Ten. Shall we continue, Iolaus?"

One of the guards threw cold water into Temon's face, bringing him brutally back to consciousness.

"Shall we continue, Iolaus?" Caesar repeated.

Defeated, Iolaus shook his head. "I'll do what you ask of me. If you'll let him go and have a healer look at his back." _And as I'm being forced to make the bargain, it's still being **taken**, Caesar. You'll have nothing from me willingly._

Caesar’s eyes never left the hunter's. "Take the boy to a healer," he ordered.

Iolaus was glad he was on his knees. He wasn't at all sure his legs would support him. He watched the guards half-drag Temon from the room. What had he agreed to? He remembered again the pain of rape and resolutely pushed the memory away. _You will get nothing from me that you don't take_, he repeated silently.

He heard Caesar say curtly, "Leave the whip." Without speaking, the warrior who held it placed the long whip on the ground. Then Iolaus was alone with Caesar.

It was the longest night of his life.


	2. Chapter 2

#### Two weeks later.

Hercules tied off the rope and stood back, checking his work. He nodded to himself, satisfied. That would make a nasty surprise for any of Caesar’s legions who reached the gates. Hopefully, though, it wouldn’t be needed.

"Hercules!"

He turned around to answer the call and saw Corin running toward him. The same, almost physical pain clutched at his heart at the sight of the blond-haired young man. He looked so much like Iolaus at that age …

Forcing a smile of greeting — his grief was private — Hercules asked, "How far did you get?"

"All the way to the cliff," Corin reported proudly.

"I told you not to go that far," Hercules reproved. "You could have been seen."

Corin shrugged. "I wasn’t."

The kid might have been killed, but there wasn’t a lot of point in telling him off now. "How many ships?" Hercules asked him.

"Eight."

"Too many," Hercules commented grimly. Caesar was obviously determined to take this coast. He glanced back at the defences he had been building. "Corin, when the battle begins, this is what I need you to do…" As he explained the traps to the young man, the demigod’s mind was only half on the work. He couldn’t help thinking of Iolaus.

Two weeks had passed since their ship went down. Two weeks, and he still had no idea if his lover was alive or dead. He was afraid of the worst.

It was difficult to hope anyone had survived that storm. Hercules wasn’t entirely sure how _he_ had survived it; when the waterspout hit the ship the rigging had torn loose and trapped Hercules where he was: at the wheel. He hadn’t been able to fight his way free as the ship sank with frightening speed. When he fought his way to the surface, his lungs desperate for air, he had seen no sign at all of the wreck. No debris. No survivors. Nothing. Sick with fear for Iolaus, he had shouted and searched until he was too exhausted to swim. All of this in the middle of one of the worst storms he had ever known in the Aegean. The wind and the current carried him onward until, with no way of guessing how long he had been in the water, he had sighted land and somehow found enough strength left to swim for shore.

No mortal could have survived that storm. But Hercules wouldn’t believe Iolaus was dead until he heard it from Hades himself.

Seeking help in the nearest village, Hercules had learned of the impending invasion of Caesar’s forces. His first impulse had been to refuse his help: he needed to start searching for Iolaus, but when he calmed down enough to think straight, he realised that he could do that best by staying where he was. If Iolaus had survived (he must have survived, he _must_) the currents would have brought him to this coastline. Organising the villages gave Hercules the chance to get many people searching the coast.

Every day, he asked himself if he was doing the right thing. Every day, a little more of his hope died. And every night, he missed Iolaus more, while his dreams tormented him with memories of his lover.

Many of the villagers had served in armies before, and most of them owned weapons. It had proved easier than he expected to organise them into a fighting force. But a force equal to Caesar’s legions? No. If they were to have any hope of a decisive victory, they would need the advantage of numbers. If Corin’s information was accurate, they didn’t have that advantage.

Leaving Corin behind him, Hercules looked out over the farmland surrounding the village. This would be their battlefield. Well, Iolaus was fond of telling him he was a one-man army. Hercules blinked back the tears that threatened at that thought and set his jaw grimly. He would need to live up to that boast.

"Can we win?" Corin asked him. The young man had appeared at his side, looking out over the land.

"We have to," was the only answer Hercules could give. The alternative… In his mind’s eye he saw a vision of this field covered with crosses.

Just like the town, further up the coast, that Hercules had been too late to save.

***

"He wants to meet you."

"Does he know who I am?"

Corin frowned slightly. "I don’t think he did. I told him. Did I do wrong?"

Hercules shook his head. "No, that’s just what I wanted. You make a good herald, Corin."

"I’d make a better warrior," the blond responded instantly.

_Not if I can help it._ "Don’t be so eager to die in battle," Hercules told him wearily. "The glory isn’t worth the pain, believe me."

They had lost too many in the battle. It had been hard fought, with no clear winner. Caesar’s legions had been kept away from the villages: that was a victory of sorts. But they hadn’t been defeated as soundly as Hercules had hoped. Both sides had suffered losses and Hercules suspected his side had come off worst. Caesar would be back.

Unless he could convince Caesar that the battle would be too much trouble.

***

They met in a hastily-erected pavilion just outside the town Caesar held. Neutral ground. From Caesar’s point of view it was safe: his legions were nearby in case of treachery. From Hercules’ point of view it was a dangerous risk, but the demigod was confident of his ability to fight his way out of any trap that might have been set.

If only he had realised the nature of Caesar’s trap earlier.

The pavilion was a simple, open structure: a canvas roof supported by four poles, with a couple of chairs and a table beneath. On the table was a flask of wine.

Hercules had no patience for such courtesies. Caesar was his enemy and he was a warrior: he would sooner kill him than drink with him. But the forms of diplomacy must be followed. He was well aware that this meeting would achieve nothing: the most he hoped to get from it was a sense of how determined Caesar was to take this coast. How hard he would have to fight to keep it. The demigod intended to _try_ to convince Caesar to give up. He just wasn’t basing any plans on success.

He only had to meet Caesar’s eyes once to know that this was not a man he could influence; there would be no reforming this man. Like Callisto, he was too obsessed with the path he was on to hear any other voice.

"I know how this meeting is supposed to go," Hercules told him. "We talk politely for a while, you boast about the strength of your army, I talk about my strengths, we both try to intimidate each other. Then I’m supposed to ask you what it would take to make you go away. But we both know you’re not going to be bought. So let’s skip the sabre-rattling and cut to the chase."

"We’re both men of action," Caesar said non-committally.

Hercules gave a humourless smile. "I knew we’d understand each other. You asked for this meeting. Why?"

"I have a proposal for you."

Caesar was far too confident. He _had_ to know that Hercules wasn’t going to back down. "I’m listening," Hercules said warily. He was alert for danger; perhaps this was an attempt to kill him.

"I’m going to take the coast from here for a hundred leagues in both directions. I’m going to take it if I have to crucify every man, woman and child from here to Athens. I want you to leave. Today. And don’t return." The words were casually spoken; only the man’s eyes showed how serious he was.

"You know I can’t do that."

"You haven’t heard my offer, yet."

Hercules almost laughed. "Fine. What’s the offer?"

Caesar placed an object on the table between them. "You leave, and I won’t kill your friend."

Hercules looked down. Iolaus’ medallion lay on the polished wood, its thong intact and wound around it. Involuntarily, he reached for the carved green stone. "Iolaus?" he breathed. He turned the stone over in his hands, tracing its abstract lines. He had seen and touched it too many times to be fooled by a counterfeit. This was Iolaus’. Emotions washed through him in waves. Relief: Iolaus was alive; joy; fear; anger… The demigod looked into Caesar’s eyes: the Roman thought he had won.

Perhaps he had.

"Where is he?" Hercules demanded.

Caesar smiled. "You don’t really think I’m going to answer that, do you?"

Hercules couldn’t answer. Where was Iolaus? Was he alright? How had he fallen into Caesar’s hands? How had Caesar known who he was? How did he know that he had captured the demigod’s heart?

What was he going to do now?

"I want to see him," Hercules said.

"No. Don’t get any foolish ideas, Hercules," Caesar told him. "I won’t tell you where he is. I _will_ tell you that he’s alive now, and he’ll be dead before you reach him. Unless you agree to my terms."

Hercules looked down at the medallion in his hand. Iolaus… he knew Caesar was capable of what he threatened. He knew, too, that the Roman couldn’t be trusted to keep his word. But what choice did he have?

"Then I agree," he said. The words rang in his head like a death-knell. Whether for many, or for one, he didn’t know.

***

The deepest pit of Tartarus could not be worse torture than this.

Iolaus heard it all. Separated from his lover only by the timber stakes that made up the town’s outer defence, he had hardly been able to believe he truly heard Hercules’ voice. His only thought, at first, was the realisation that Hercules was alive. He very nearly called out to him.

But there was the prick of sharp steel at his throat, the dagger held by one of Caesar’s warriors. Who also held Iolaus’ chained wrists securely behind his back. Iolaus knew that if he made a single move or sound he would be dead before he took another breath. He had wondered why Caesar had dragged him out here. Now he knew: he was insurance in case Hercules didn't believe Caesar's threats. Iolaus knew Hercules' love for him; he knew Herc wouldn't take that risk, whatever the cost.

He knew he was his demigod's greatest weakness.

Even so, it was not the threat of death that kept him silent.

It was the knowledge that Hercules, however much he loved Iolaus, would never forgive him for what he had done.

***

_ **Ten days earlier, the third day of Iolaus’ captivity.** _

_He awoke reluctantly, his awareness only of pain. His wrists had been chaffed raw by the heavy manacles; his back bore the marks of Caesar’s whip and knife; his ass was a hot centre of pain. Worse, by far, than any of these was the anger and shame that filled his heart as the details of the night returned to his reluctant memory._

_When Caesar was done with him, someone had taken him from the inn to the town’s prison, which like the rest of the town had been co-opted for Caesar’s purposes. Iolaus had been in no condition by then to think of resistance or escape. The prison was an improvement on the brig, at least. Thrown unceremoniously into a cell he had lain on the ground, too exhausted even to sit up. Eventually, fear of nightmares lost the battle with his body’s needs and he had slept._

_Now he moved his body into a sitting position. Even such a simple manoeuvre hurt like Tartarus. He methodically checked the parts of him that hurt: a long job. Incredibly, nothing seemed badly damaged._

_At some point during the day food and water was brought to his cell. Otherwise, he was left alone. Iolaus drank the water gratefully, but when he tried to swallow some bread his stomach rebelled and he was forced, despite his hunger, to give up. _

_He wondered what had happened to Temon. Caesar was more than capable of betraying the bargain he had forced Iolaus to make._

_The day stretched on endlessly. Iolaus could hear sounds of activity outside the prison. At one point he heard people running, shouts and a clash of swords. He thought little of it at first. Then he thought about the disciplined troops Caesar commanded, and his methods of keeping control and began to wonder what could possibly be happening._

_He began to fantasise about Hercules, or maybe Xena walking into town and hearing what had happened to him._

_At dusk, Iolaus was taken from his cell once again. He had planned for this moment, but one look at the number of soldiers around him told him an escape attempt would only lead him to Hades. And he wasn’t ready for that. Yet. Left with no choice, he contented himself with a few choice insults directed at the guards. Inwardly he was shuddering at the thought of another night in Caesar’s hands._

_Why was Caesar — his former lover— doing this to him? There were easy answers: all too obviously Caesar enjoyed causing pain. But why? What could have changed him so much? Was there any way at all to reach the man he had known and loved? He must be a part of Caesar somewhere._

_The guards led Iolaus into the central square of the town. Iolaus had only a moment to note the details. A moment was enough._

_The empty space in the middle of the square was empty no more: a number of crosses lay on the ground, awaiting victims. At first, Iolaus wondered if he was to be one of them. The thought brought no emotional reaction at all. Then he saw the group of prisoners to one side of the square. _

I’m dreaming. Dear gods, let this be a nightmare.

_A raised platform stood at one end of the square. Iolaus was led there, to Caesar and forced roughly to his knees in front of the Roman leader. The hunter shot a poisonous look at the guard, but said nothing._

_"Ah, Iolaus." Caesar glanced down at him indifferently. "You’re learning, I see." He smiled: a hawk sighting prey. "I rather like you on your knees," he added. The innuendo was obvious._

_Iolaus felt his stomach churn and was glad he hadn’t eaten. _Not tonight, you bastard. _Shaking the guard’s hand off his shoulder, he got to his feet, pointedly not waiting for an invitation. "What am I doing here, Caesar?" he challenged._

_In the darkening square, the first of the prisoners was being led to a cross. The prisoner was a young girl, just a teenager. In the watching crowd, a woman — perhaps the girl’s mother — cried out. She was silenced by a soldier._

_"I thought," Caesar said, his eyes on the scene below, "you would like to witness Roman justice."_

_Without thinking, Iolaus blurted, "Justice? This isn’t justice. It’s butchery!" The words carried._

_Caesar hit him: a heavy, backhanded blow. Iolaus staggered at the impact, pain exploding in his head, but somehow he stayed on his feet. He straightened and looked directly at Caesar, resisting the urge to raise a hand to his now-bleeding mouth. _

_"What has that child done to deserve this?" Iolaus asked._

_"Nothing. This is an example. The price of opposing Rome." He was still watching the soldiers as they tied the girl to the cross._

Opposing **you**, you mean,_ Iolaus realised. He remembered the sounds of fighting he had heard from his prison cell. There must have been an uprising of some sort and Caesar was selecting victims at random to quell further rebellion._

_"But you’re crucifying **children**, Julius," Iolaus said. It was beyond his comprehension._

_Caesar looked at him, then, his eyes flashing with anger. "You forget your place."_

_For a moment Iolaus was silent. Then he raised his hands, acutely aware of the weight of chains. "How can I forget my place? I’m your prisoner. Your slave, if that’s the way you want it — I know there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. But I’m also a human being and this — " he gestured toward the square " — is inhuman."_

_Caesar took three paces toward Iolaus, ending up standing very close to him. "Are you under the impression, **slave**," he asked menacingly, "that you have some influence over me?"_

_"Not for a moment," Iolaus answered. His eyes were drawn again to the proceeding execution. _Oh gods, I can’t let this happen. _He was aware that he did have some power over this man: Caesar wanted something from him. He just didn’t know what it was. Memory supplied Caesar’s words: _"All you are is a waste of food and water, Iolaus. I suppose it would be simplest to kill you."_ Yet he was still alive. Battered and bruised, but not broken and not dead. There had to be a reason._

_"Caesar … " Iolaus began. Then he stopped, unable to continue._

_The Roman gave him a cynical look. "Iolaus."_

_Deep breath. _Take the risk, Iolaus. What do you have to lose? _"Isn’t there anything human left in you?" he asked, speaking not to Caesar, but to the man he had loved, years ago. "Tell me there is, Julius. Tell me there’s **something** I can do or say that will stop this … this atrocity."_

_Caesar’s dark eyes gleamed with triumph. Iolaus swallowed painfully. Caesar’s hand touched his face, stroking lightly down his cheek. "Do you think," he asked softly, "you’re that good a fuck, Iolaus?"_

_There wasn’t really an answer he could make to that, so Iolaus said nothing. The silence dragged on._

_"Last night, you called yourself my whore. A moment ago, my slave. What more can you be to me, Iolaus? What could you possibly give me that I cannot take?"_

_Iolaus swallowed again. His throat was so dry he could barely speak._

_And Caesar told him. Told him what he expected from him. Obedience: complete and willing obedience to his every request…and desire. _Slavery, in other words,_ Iolaus thought bitterly. _No, worse than that. He’s asking me to volunteer to be his… _but even in his mind, he couldn’t say the words._

_"I—If I agree to this, y—you’ll spare them?" Iolaus forced the words past his dry throat._

_" The women and children, anyway. Will you accept my word of honour?"_

_"You don’t **have** honour," Iolaus snapped._

_His defiance only made Caesar laugh. And then he gave the order to release the captives. "Go to the prison, take six men, any six, and fill those crosses," he added to the guard._

_Iolaus stayed silent, though it cost him. He had won a victory of sorts: he didn’t want to spoil it._

_Later that night, he learned just how empty his victory was._

_He spent the following day in prison once again. Left alone, disgusted with himself for the events of the night…_

_…remembering how it had felt to spill his seed into Caesar’s eager hands…remembering how quickly he had obeyed the order to assume the position, longing by then to be filled…_

_How **could** he? When Hercules was — or might be, was likely to be — dead? How could he give himself to another man? How could he enjoy it? With an evil man. A man who had raped him._

_Lost in shame and misery, Iolaus forgot that there had been a reason for his sacrifice. All he had was the vague feeling that he had been tricked, somehow. _Oh, yeah, Iolaus. Like **that** makes sense.

Well_, he vowed,_ that was the last time.

_"You will get nothing from me that you don’t take," he had told Caesar. It was time he kept that vow. In the wreck Caesar had made of his heart and his memories, Iolaus’ pride was all he had left to salvage._

_So that night, when Caesar summoned him, he fought. His abused body was stiff and aching, but he was a healthy man who had been fighting most of his life. He put up a fairly good fight before they piled enough bodies on top of him to hold him down._

_It was a small but satisfying triumph that Caesar then came to **him**._

_Caesar took one look at the hunter, still struggling against the men who held him down. He looked around the dark room at the guards Iolaus had taken out. "Get up," he ordered curtly._

_Still struggling, Iolaus was dragged to his feet._

_Caesar waited until he quit struggling. "I’m tired of this game, Iolaus." Caesar gestured to a guard; he was handed a drawn sword. "I’ve allowed you to play at resistance," he continued. "You see, I understand your need to cling to pride. But the game is over now." Without warning, he drove the hilt of the sword into Iolaus’ stomach._

_Iolaus had been anticipating something of the sort; nevertheless, the blow knocked the breath from his body. He doubled over in pain, gasping for air._

_Caesar grabbed his hair and pulled his head up sharply. "There is never any way to avoid my will, slave. It seems you’ll have to learn that the hard way." He released Iolaus and turned away. "Bring him," he ordered._

_He was given no opportunity to walk. Dragged between two guards through the streets of the town, Iolaus realised this was intended to humiliate him. But Caesar was wasting his time; that sort of pride had been lost to him the first time he said yes to this monster. He realised they were headed for the harbour. Why there? What was going to happen to him?_

_He was taken on board one of the ships. The same one, he thought, he had travelled here aboard, but he couldn’t be sure. They chained him to the mast, positioned so he could barely move: he could only stand, looking over the deck._

_It was only then that he saw the other prisoner. Temon again. They must have been following behind. Iolaus’ heart began to beat faster at the sight of the young man._

_"I thought you said the game was over," he said to Caesar._

_"This is no game, Iolaus." Caesar, standing beside him, might have been discussing a chariot race. "Enjoy the show."_

_With horror, Iolaus realised what Caesar intended to do. "No! Gods, Caesar … " His plea was ignored. The guards began their work, and it seemed Temon, too, knew what was to happen: he struggled and pleaded, but to no avail._

_"Alright!" Iolaus cried. "You win. Just don’t — "_

_Temon’s scream cut off his words. Iolaus strained futilely against the chains. Caesar didn’t even react._

_Iolaus closed his eyes to the sight, but that actually made it worse; he couldn’t close his ears as the young man’s screams dwindled to pitiful, constant moaning. Iolaus wasn’t aware of speaking, but he could hear his own voice begging Caesar to make it stop, promising anything, anything. He was ignored._

_It went on for hours._

_They left Iolaus there, chained to the mast all night._

_When dawn broke over the horizon, Iolaus’ eyes, feeling like sand in his head from lack of sleep, could still recoil in horror from the sight before him. The bloody and broken body of a man he had called friend._

_Iolaus never refused Caesar again._

***

He had stopped thinking of the future. He had refused to think of the past. He lived one moment at a time; that way the pain was less, experienced, then forgotten. It was the only way he knew to go on and stay sane.

If this was sanity.

Until the heartstopping moment when he heard Hercules’ voice.

Oh, gods, what had he become? How could so much have changed in so few days. Days? It felt like a lifetime.

Hercules. His lover …

No, no longer. It wasn’t possible any more: he tried to picture a reunion and failed; tried to remember their shared passion but the image of Temon’s death intruded, blocking the memories. He was aware of the past, but it was like something that happened to someone else, like a story he might have been told. No longer real.

The demigod’s beloved voice wasn’t real. It was hope, sent to torment him. A punishment.

The only escape for him would be death. Tartarus was beginning to look like an attractive prospect.


	3. Chapter 3

If his choice proved to be the wrong one, Hercules knew it would haunt him forever. He was risking too much. If it hadn’t been for Iolaus … The weight of the medallion in his hand was a constant reminder. He had been holding it for so long the stone was warm against his skin.

The one strategy he had failed to anticipate, and could never have prepared for. Iolaus. The man he loved more than life in his enemy’s hands.

Or was he? Could Hercules trust Caesar? There were several ways the man could have obtained the amulet and most of them involved taking it from Iolaus’ dead body. _No. I’d know if he were dead. Surely I’d know. _Would Caesar have risked lying about this?

Hercules didn’t know.

He did know _he_ couldn’t take the risk. He had to proceed as if Caesar had told him the simple truth. To do anything else could get Iolaus killed.

But that meant he had to accede to Caesar’s demands.

They held a meeting in the old barn. Facing the villagers who were depending on him, telling them of the decision he had made … that had been hard. There had been protests. There had been arguments. There had been looks of accusation and betrayal. It was never easy for Hercules to walk away from a cry for help. Finally, there had been acceptance.

Maron, one of the oldest veterans in the group, had taken control of the meeting, pointing out to them that with or without Hercules they would still fight to protect their homes; that if Hercules chose to leave them now, it wouldn’t undo what he had already done for them: given them a chance to win.

"He’s right," Hercules had agreed. "I told you from the start that you would have to fight. I want to stay and help, but in the end, I’m only one man."

"You’re _Hercules_," Corin protested loudly. There were murmurs of agreement.

Of all of them, Corin was the hardest to face like this. Hercules saw a lot of potential in him … if only he could live through this war.

"I’m _one man_," he repeated. "Now, listen. Caesar will be expecting you to be disorganised when I leave — you’ll need to be ready. Probably for a night attack. Make sure you have a watch posted … "

That had been two hours ago.

Hercules raised a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. looking back over the trail he had walked. It was a dry landscape; patches of green around the scattered villages spoke of how hard the people worked to eke a living from the inhospitable land. If not for the harbour nearby, this area would be a poor place to live.

"This isn’t right," Corin insisted again. He had walked all this way at the demigod’s side, arguing almost the whole time. It was, Hercules reflected sadly, almost like travelling with Iolaus. Except this was the point where Corin had to turn around and go home.

"What’s not right," Hercules told him, "is that you’re not listening to me." He clasped his new friend’s shoulder firmly as the young man looked up at him. "Did you really think Caesar could chase me off this easily?"

Ah, that did it. He finally had Corin’s attention.

"Corin, I have to let Caesar _believe_ he’s beaten me. His scouts will see me leave; I know they’re watching. He might even have a spy in the village."

Corin started. "That’s … " he began.

"I don’t think it’s likely, but it _is_ possible," Hercules cut off the young man’s defence of his people.

Corin nodded, beginning to understand. "That’s why you called the meeting."

"Right. I’ll be back after dark. But until tonight, you keep that to yourself. Okay?"

"O_kay_!" Corin had brightened noticeably. Then he frowned again. "But what if there’s a battle? What are you gonna do, hide?"

"There _will_ be a battle. Tonight. Caesar will want to take his advantage at once. I’ll be there, and I _will_ fight. I’m not going to let Caesar win." _Not the battle, not this war … and not Iolaus,_ he added silently.

Hercules’ hand moved involuntarily to the pouch on his belt where he kept Iolaus’ medallion.

_Iolaus, I know you’re alive. Just hold on a little longer. Don’t give up._

***

There had been another battle.

For Iolaus, one of the most frustrating things about imprisonment was being cut off from everything happening around him. To the townspeople he was an outsider; to the Romans he was a prisoner: Caesar’s latest toy. What little information he had was gleaned from overheard conversations or simply from being observant.

But he didn’t have to be observant to know things weren’t going well when the prison was turned into a hospital. He supposed he should have been pleased that Caesar was taking losses. But watching the steady stream of wounded men, Iolaus only felt compassion for them.

Either bringing along a decent healer hadn’t been a high priority for Caesar, or the war was going worse than Iolaus had guessed. Most of the wounds he could see from his cell were very bad, but he saw only two healers — at least, he assumed they were healers — moving among the wounded. One of them was a woman: she didn’t look old enough to be experienced. Iolaus watched for a while, not sure whether he should say anything. These men were his enemies, after all. It didn’t take long for his compassion to win out over his warrior’s detachment.

With a sigh, he approached the barred door of his cell. "Hey!" he called.

The woman healer looked up from her current patient wearily.

"You’re doing that wrong," Iolaus told her. "A tourniquet has to be very tight. Then you loosen it every couple of minutes."

"Are you a healer?" she asked him.

Iolaus shook his head. "No, but I’ve been in a lot of battles. I know how to treat these wounds."

The healer stared at him for a few moments, then moved on without speaking further.

_Well, I tried. _Iolaus sat down on the stone floor. He had noticed though, that she had taken his advice.

Moments later, the healer returned, accompanied by an elderly man and a guard. The guard unlocked the cell.

"Out," the old man ordered.

Iolaus, confused, obeyed.

The guard looked from Iolaus to the old man. "I’ll have to tell Caesar about this … "

"Caesar ordered _me_ to co-opt anyone who could help," the old man said firmly. "This man can help." He turned piercing slate-blue eyes to Iolaus. "If you’re willing?"

Iolaus glanced around at the wounded men. "I’ll help," he agreed without hesitation.

It was a long day and the work was hard and unpleasant. Iolaus hardly noticed. For the first time since the shipwreck, he felt he was doing something useful. The chain dangling between his hands kept getting in the way at first, but after a while he learned to ignore it. He wasn’t permitted to leave the prison, but it didn’t occur to him to try: there was too much to do there. He cleaned wounds and dressed them, he helped set broken limbs and for men beyond saving, he brought water and what little comfort he could. Greek and Roman, enemy and friend: the divisions ceased to have meaning. They were men in need of help, nothing else.

He learned from the wounded men that Caesar was fighting his war on two fronts, and wondered why. It seemed like sloppy strategy for Caesar. Unless he had no choice …

At one point the old man who had freed him from the cell told him to take a break. He led Iolaus to one side, bringing him food and a mug of cold ale. Iolaus accepted gratefully.

"Has anyone looked at _your_ wounds?" the old healer asked him while he ate.

"What wounds?" Iolaus asked him, confused.

"Your back," the man prompted gently. "And whatever I can’t see."

Gods, he had almost forgotten. Iolaus shook his head. "No. But it’s fine. I don’t need help."

The man was silent for a moment, regarding Iolaus with a speculative look. "Iolaus … I’m Caesar’s personal healer. I’ve seen the results of his games before."

Iolaus felt the flush rising in his face. Was it so obvious? "There’s nothing I can do about it," he said defensively.

The faintest hint of amusement crinkled the lines around the old man’s eyes. "Sure there is. Look over there." A slight tilt of his head indicated direction.

Iolaus looked, but he didn’t see anything significant. "What’s over there?"

"You have been in this prison too long," the healer sighed. "Sometimes, when the eyes adapt to the darkness, they forget how to see." Iolaus was about to tell him to cut the mystical claptrap when the old man added, "We had to cut the uniforms from some of the wounded soldiers. There’s a pile of tunics on that bench." The old healer said nothing more.

Iolaus returned the man’s look. Handing his empty plate to the healer, he said simply, "Thank you." He understood.

Was it possible, though? Even with a disguise, this hateful chain was a dead giveaway.

Then again, what did he have to lose? His life? That was a laugh. His life, in this place, was worthless. Only today, when he’d been given a chance to help people, had he felt alive. He had even forgotten, if only for a moment, the horror his existence had become.

Iolaus glanced out of the open prison door. It was late afternoon; he could see the lengthening shadows. He heard Hercules’ voice in his mind. _Iolaus, I know you’re alive. Just hold on a little longer. Don’t give up._

He thought of Caesar. He thought of Hercules.

He chose life.

***

Iolaus was running. His lungs felt like they were bursting, but he didn’t dare to slow down. Each step sent jagged pain through his bruised body. The stolen tunic chaffed against his wounds; the Roman helmet he wore was making him too hot. The chain battered his legs as he ran, leaving more bruises. He ignored the pain. He ignored everything. He ran.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. He had long ago lost any pursuit. Imagination conjured demons close behind him. He knew they weren’t real, but he ran from them anyway.

His heart pounded against his ribs like a live thing trying to escape.

He stumbled on the uneven ground and fell headlong. Iolaus tried to breathe and choked on the dust. He managed to get onto his knees but couldn’t et up any further. Hands braced on the ground, he stayed there, bent double, gasping for breath. Not enough air, not nearly enough and he was so tired and so hot and so much of him was hurting …

Almost on the edge of panic, Iolaus remembered one of the disciplines he had learned in the east so long ago. Willing himself to relax he focussed on the pain he felt, imagining it as a physical object he could fight or overpower. Concentration slowed and deepened his breathing and he felt the pain begin to grow less. Thoughts of danger were put aside. He stayed where he was, just breathing, just _being_ until his heart rate slowed and his starved lungs were satisfied.

_Forget what’s behind you, Iolaus. Look ahead. Where in Tartarus am I going?_

The whole countryside was at war. And the chain he still wore would mark him as a criminal or a slave. Was slavery permitted in this province? He couldn’t remember.

The best thing he could do, he decided, was keep going and try to reach a village Caesar hadn’t yet taken. And hope that they would believe his story.

There was still pain: strained muscles and old wounds. Nothing he couldn’t live with.

Iolaus began to run again, setting a slower pace this time, conserving what strength he had left. He searched the horizon for signs of habitation, found several and allowed instinct to decide which one he should head for.

Such a long way. By the time he felt he was getting close, he was at the limit of his endurance. His body had been through too much recently. Too tired even to see clearly, Iolaus didn’t even notice the ravine until he fell. The ground vanished from beneath his feet and he was falling. He hit the rocky ground; while it broke his fall, it didn’t stop it. He was rolling, helpless to stop himself, down the steep and rocky slope. He managed to bring his arms up to protect his head, then realised he didn’t have to: he was still wearing that Roman helmet. The fall took a terrible toll on his already bruised body, opening old wounds and giving him several new ones.

When the fall ended, he lay unable to move, his existence a jagged mass of greater and lesser pains. He closed his eyes. Just to rest for a moment …

He sank into the darkness gratefully, not caring if it was death.

***

Iolaus was dreaming.

He shied away from the dream; that way lay nightmares. But it refused to go away.

And such a strange dream. All black, but there were smells and sounds, even taste. A bitter taste on his tongue, like … like … something familiar, anyway. The smell of fresh hay, and animals. So real he could feel the tickle of chaff in his nostrils. He was lying on something soft. Welcome. And there were voices all around him.

" … more we can do. Why did you bring him here?"

" … needed help…"

"He’s a Roman. We should let him die."

"Romans cut their hair short. He’s not one of … "

" … chain. Must have been a prisoner."

Iolaus stirred restlessly, trying to block the voices out. He didn’t want to dream. No dreams, no memory…and no pain.

But the voices wouldn’t let him rest.

" … question. What do we do with … "

" … dying anyway. Let him die."

Then a new voice, a _wonderful_ voice: "I’m sure there’s a better solution than that. Let me through."

"Hercules!"

Yes, that’s right. It’s Herc’s voice!

He struggled to open his eyes.

"Iolaus?" Hercules said. Shock in his voice with the word.

A hand resting gently on Iolaus’ face, fingers stroking through his hair. Heartbreakingly familiar gestures. "Iolaus?" the voice said again.

Drawing strength, somehow from that imagined touch, Iolaus decided that maybe dreaming wasn’t so bad. Even though he knew it couldn’t be real, he _had_ to respond to that voice, to give his lover what he needed. Iolaus forced his eyes open.

And found himself enfolded in a huge, bone-crushing hug.

"Iolaus! Thank the gods! I thought I’d lost you forever."

"Hercules … " he whispered.

And it wasn’t a dream. Not a dream at all.


	4. Chapter 4

#### The next day, a few hours after dawn.

Iolaus lowered his body slowly into the steaming water. There wasn’t a part of him that didn’t ache. The water was hot enough to turn his skin red, and as more and more of him sank beneath the surface the heat stung his many wounds painfully. He welcomed the pain, though. It meant he could still feel.

Finally, he took a deep breath and held it, ducking under the water completely. As the heat engulfed him, Iolaus wondered idly if it would be possible to drown himself in the tub. Then he broke the surface of the water, taking another, reluctant breath. He wasn’t sure he had the guts to kill himself.

He found a bar of soap balanced on the edge of the tub and picked it up. He was never going to feel clean again, and he knew it. But at least he could get rid of the stink he had accumulated in his time as Caesar’s prisoner. Working the soap into a lather he began to clean himself with gentle strokes alone his arms and chest. After a while, he began to scrub at his skin in earnest, then with increasing vigour, rubbing hard enough to break open half-healed wounds.

A shadow fell across his vision and Iolaus started in sudden terror.

"Woah. It’s only me," Hercules said quickly, with a reassuring smile. "I thought you might want something to eat." The demigod was carrying a tray with a generous chunk of fresh bread, cheese and fruit. When Iolaus failed to answer him he moved closer to the bathtub, but sat down on the ground at a safe distance, placing the tray on the floor beside him. He looked up, unable to resist watching the hunter bathe. The demigod’s eyes narrowed, a frown line appearing between his brows.

"Iolaus … ?"

Iolaus turned and saw Hercules’ eyes on him. Self-consciously, he ducked under the water again, concealing his body.

Hercules couldn’t stay silent. "Those wounds don’t look like battle scars," he commented carefully. He wasn’t sure what the healing cuts on his lover’s back _did_ look like.

Iolaus behaved as if he hadn’t heard. He said nothing and went on washing.

"Can you tell me what happened to you?" Hercules asked. He got to his feet, stepping closer to his lover. _Gods, Iolaus, what have you been through? _A look from Iolaus stopped him in his tracks. He wouldn’t add to his lover’s fear. But how bad could it have been, if Iolaus couldn’t even trust Hercules?

"When I’m ready, Herc," Iolaus said quietly. "Not now."

"Okay." Hercules agreed readily. He hesitated. What would Iolaus want him to do? Gently he asked, "Would you rather I left you alone?" He knew if Iolaus said yes he’d be hurt. _Whatever he needs …_

Iolaus looked at his lover for a long time, thinking about that. Herc was trying so hard. How could Iolaus explain that none of this was about him? Finally, he answered, "No, I could use the company. Just … " he tried to smile; it didn’t really work, " … don’t ask to join me, okay?" He knew he couldn’t bear a lover’s touch.

Hercules stayed with him, just talking. He told Iolaus about the battle they had fought that night. The alarm had sounded almost as soon as Hercules had arrived in the barn and he had been forced to leave his lover’s side to fight. They had been well prepared, and had driven the Romans off again. He hoped that would end it.

Iolaus said nothing. Hercules kept talking, wandering from subject to subject. It didn’t much matter what he said: Iolaus wasn’t listening. Finally Iolaus seemed to decide he was clean. Hercules automatically began to hand him a cloth to dry himself, but he saw Iolaus shy away from his touch and threw the towel at him instead. His heart was breaking from seeing his lover in such pain.

Iolaus dressed himself, then to Hercules’ immense relief he sat down beside the demigod and began to eat.

"Iolaus?"

The hunter looked up. He saw only love and concern in the demigod’s impossibly blue eyes. Ashamed, he couldn’t hold that gaze. When Hercules knew, he would never want Iolaus again.

"Iolaus, can I ask you … ?"

Iolaus, avoiding his friend’s eyes, nodded tensely.

"What they — what _Caesar_ did to you. I’m not going to ask what happened, but was it…because of me?" The last three words came out in a rush.

Iolaus relaxed. He could keep his shame to himself a little longer. "No," he answered, reaching for the bread. He still couldn’t meet Herc’s eyes.

"Then why? I don’t understand."

Iolaus froze. "A long time ago, when I was in the east, I met Caesar. In battle." It felt like a lie.

Hercules absorbed this in silence. Running a hand through his hair, he asked, "What did you do? To make such an enemy of him, I mean?"

Iolaus laughed, a harsh, bitter sound. "I have no idea, and that’s the truth. Actually, I thought we were friends." He did look up then, meeting Hercules’ eyes. "But I promise you, Herc, what happened between us was about the past. Not about you. Don’t feel guilty." _No, **I’m** the one who should feel guilty; I betrayed you and us and everything I am … I can’t even remember why._

Hercules grasped the hunter’s shoulder briefly; an habitual gesture. Iolaus moved away from his touch, reaching for an apple he didn’t want, trying to make the movement seem a coincidence. His skin tingled where the demigod had touched him and he rubbed at the shoulder, wanting the feeling to go away.

"Was it … " Hercules stammered, obviously unsure about asking the question. "Did he … ?"

The bitter laughter rose up again; Iolaus had no idea where it was coming from. "Did he rape me?" he asked for Hercules. The demigod nodded reluctantly. "No," Iolaus told him. _No, I agreed to everything he did to me … _"I don’t want to talk about it, Herc."

He couldn’t bear the tension any longer. Scrambling to his feet, Iolaus walked away from his friend. He did not look back, but he could feel Hercules’ eyes on him the whole way.

***

Much later that night, Iolaus joined Hercules on watch. Several piles of hay bales were scattered around the perimeter of the village: intended for archers to shelter behind during the battle, they also provided some elevation for a night sentry. While Hercules hoped the last battle had ended the war for now, but he wasn’t certain. A second night attack was certainly a possibility and he wanted to be prepared.

When Iolaus appeared and silently sat beside him, Hercules was almost afraid to speak. The hunter had been avoiding him all day and he thought he knew why. He’d made a hash of their earlier conversation, but he was at a loss to know what to do. All he knew was that his lover was in pain.

He looked at Iolaus. The same Iolaus — the wild gold hair he loved to touch, gleaming in the moonlight and caught by each stray breeze, the same blue eyes, though they held a shadow, now. The hunter’s merry grin was absent. And something else was missing. Why hadn’t he thought of it earlier? Hercules reached into the pouch at his waist for the amulet he had taken from Caesar.

"I almost forgot," he grinned, offering the green stone to Iolaus.

The hunter stared at his medallion, half a dozen conflicting emotions chasing each other across his features. He reached out a hand to take it from his lover. As his fingers closed over the amulet he had believed lost for good, Iolaus felt tears spring into his eyes. The pain he had been hiding deep within broke free and became a choking sob.

"Iolaus?"

He tried to turn away, ashamed of his weakness, not wanting the demigod to see. Hercules wouldn’t allow it, however. He pulled his lover firmly into his arms. "It’s alright, Iolaus, just let it go."

Hercules’ understanding and acceptance broke the last of his defences down. Iolaus clung to him, the pain and the anger given voice at last in his constant, harsh cries. And as Hercules held him there, feeling his lover’s agony almost as his own, the demigod realised he didn’t need to ask Iolaus anything. He _knew_. Or at least, he knew enough. He held his lover close, instinctively protective, his lips pressed into the tangled curls. "It’s alright, Iolaus. It’s over. I love you. It’s okay now. It’s over." The same words repeated time and again, while Iolaus wept.

He knew when the terrible emotions raging in his lover’s heart began to fade; Iolaus started to relax in his arms. That was the greatest gift of all: that Iolaus no longer avoided his touch. Still, Iolaus hadn’t spoken a word. Hercules held him a little tighter, resting his cheek against the blond head.

The demigod’s strength surrounding him, Iolaus felt more despair than he had ever known. The warmth of Hercules’ body being so close, the scent of fresh sweat filling his nostrils, Hercules’ beloved voice murmuring reassurances and endearments, his breath gusting through Iolaus’ hair … and all Iolaus could think of was…

_Pain: Caesar’s mouth on his skin, each bite a parody of a kiss, moving lower and lower down his helpless body. The heavy chain secured his hands above his head; his ankles, too had been secured to the bed-frame. Yet the pain was not extreme, Iolaus had known much worse. From time to time, the Roman’s rough ministrations would become gentle, a finger brushing his nipple, or his cock, a tongue laving the curve of a muscle. Without ever understanding why, Iolaus found his body responding to the stimulation; his cock becoming hard. Was his desire, too, now Caesar’s slave?_

_… Another night, Caesar had ordered Iolaus to suck him. Humiliated, he had wanted to refuse, but the memory of the consequences was too fresh. He had knelt before Caesar, as ordered, his head in the Roman’s lap with his cock halfway down Iolaus’ throat, while Caesar shuffled papers and studied maps, ignoring, or pretending to ignore, his slave’s reluctant efforts. It had become a challenge to make Caesar react. When he finally drew the desired climax from the man, Iolaus felt a momentary pride in the accomplishment. And loathed himself for wanting to give this monster pleasure._

_… The last time, Caesar had used the whip again, Not as an instrument of pain, but to give his prisoner a taste of impossible pleasure. The wooden handle of the whip inside Iolaus’ body, moving, teasing the pleasure-spot within until his resistance broke and he begged for release. Caesar had taken him, then, thrusting into him hard; Iolaus gloried in the pain this caused, feeling the Roman’s climax in every muscle and sinew of his body. Satisfied, Caesar had left him there, still hard, surrounded by the scent of the other’s climax yet unable to reach his own._

_Iolaus had broken down, then, pride and self-worth destroyed by the weight of betrayal. Caesar’s words, coming from somewhere, cut through his misery without mercy: "That’s good, Iolaus. You know you’re mine, now, don’t you? You understand what I’m giving you — what no one else ever will. I know you believe Hercules will be back for you. But now you know that there’s no escape. I may allow your body to leave one day, Iolaus, but the rest of you is mine forever. You’ll never fuck again without me being there. If I let you go, part of you will long to return."_

The hunter was shaking uncontrollably in Hercules’ arms. From what seemed like a great distance he heard the demigod’s voice, telling him it was alright, telling him to breathe. Iolaus felt light-headed and confused, the edges of his vision going dark.

Pain brought him sharply back to reality. Iolaus stared at Hercules, wondering vaguely what he’d done to make him angry.

"Iolaus, _breathe_!" Hercules snapped forcefully.

Not knowing what else to do, Iolaus obeyed. A shuddering breath filled his starved lungs and he began to cough.

Hercules steadied his lover while he recovered then held him close once again. "Gods, Iolaus, you scared me to death!" he muttered. What could Iolaus have been through that would cause a panic attack like that? He was normally so resilient. In a corner of his mind, detached from the immediate present, a cold fury was forming; a determination that Caesar would pay for this. He became aware that Iolaus had pulled away and was looking up at him.

"Iolaus … I understand if you don’t want to talk about it. Just tell me how to help you."

Iolaus’ shadowed eyes met his. Hercules was uncomfortably conscious of Iolaus’ silence: his lover hadn’t said a word since he sat down. Was he somehow making things worse for Iolaus?

A whisper, so faint he wasn’t sure he had heard it. "Make love with me."

"What? Here?" Hercules’ response was automatic. They were sitting on top of a pile of hay, just outside a village at war. True, the people were nearly all asleep and they were alone. Still, it was somewhat public.

Iolaus didn’t seem to have noticed. He spoke again, his voice stronger this time. "Yes. Here. Now. Help me forget, Herc."

It was impossible for him to refuse. As Hercules bent to kiss his lover, the amulet fell from Iolaus’ fingers into the hay.

Iolaus seemed to want to be passive and Hercules took his time, drawing pleasure from his lover with a skill that came from years of loving practice; hands, lips and tongue moved over the satin skin in slow explorations and he subtly encouraged Iolaus to return the caresses. Every wound, every mark on the hunter’s skin was seen, fuelling Hercules’ desire for vengeance. But soon such thoughts were driven from his mind completely and he was lost in the wonder of Iolaus, thinking of nothing but pleasure and the love they had found in each other.

The blond rose above him, his eager mouth fastened onto the demigod’s nipple, suckling at the sensitive flesh while one of Hercules’ hands, combing through his gold tresses, held him there. Iolaus released the tormented nub and with gentle pressure Hercules guided his kisses lower, toward his erection.

Suddenly Iolaus was gone from him, turning away, his whole body a knot of tension.

It took a moment for the realisation to cut through the fog of desire that was filling Hercules’ mind. When it did, he sat up, reaching toward his lover tentatively. "Iolaus. Iolaus, it’s me. Hercules." His hand rested on the other man’s shoulder; beneath it, he could feel the muscles tense and rigid. "Iolaus, it’s okay. I would never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do. We’ll stop right now if you want. I love you."

Iolaus glanced at him, and Hercules was shocked to read genuine fear in the hunter’s eyes. Iolaus shook his head firmly. "No … I don’t want to stop … but I … "

Hercules waited, but Iolaus had nothing more to say. Intuition supplied the answer. "You need to be in charge," Hercules said softly.

Iolaus nodded.

Smiling, Hercules lay back in the hay. "Then I’m all yours, love. Tell me what you want. Or show me. You’re in control. I’ll do whatever you want."

After the smallest hesitation, the hunter lay down with him.

***

"Herc?"

His lover’s voice roused Hercules instantly out of his doze. He was supposed to be on watch! Lying here with Iolaus, replete in the aftermath of lovemaking, he had almost fallen asleep. He sat up quickly, focussing his gaze on the landscape.

"I’m sorry," Iolaus said.

He could see nothing out there. It was safe. "For what?" Hercules asked him, shifting to look back at his lover again. The moon, just past full, was riding high in the sky and he could see Iolaus’ face clearly. He had been crying. "Iolaus," Hercules said quickly, not giving him a chance to answer the first question, "you haven’t got anything to apologise _for_. Unless it’s letting me fall asleep on watch." He smiled, turning the suggestion into a joke. "I can’t imagine what you’ve been through … "

Iolaus turned away.

_Not this time, love. You **want** to tell me, you’re just scared for some reason. _Hercules caught Iolaus’ shoulder and — not roughly — turned the hunter back to face him. "Iolaus, when you said you met Caesar in the East, it was more than just a meeting, wasn’t it?"

"Wh— what do you mean?"

"Were you lovers?"

Iolaus’ eyes opened wide. "How … ?"

_I guess that’s a yes. _"Iolaus, you don’t need to tell me anything that happened. I think I have a good idea, but if you need to keep it to yourself, that’s fine. I _am_ sure that he knows you. He knows you so well that somehow he’s convinced you what happened was _your_ fault. Not many people could do that to you."

"You don’t understand," Iolaus insisted. "It was me."

_Watching Temon’s blood-streaked back as the guards half-dragged him from the room. Iolaus was left alone with Caesar. _Is he crazy? _he wondered. _He must realise I could kill him.

_"But you won’t kill me," Caesar told him. "Not tonight. Not while I have your friend."_

_Iolaus knew it was true. He stared at his captor with all the hate and revulsion he could summon._

_Caesar ran a hand down his prisoner’s bare chest. "Come, old friend, will a night with me really be so bad?"_

_Iolaus’ skin crawled at Caesar’s touch. It took a massive effort of will not to pull away. "That depends," he answered._

_"On what?" Caesar sounded amused._

_"What you think you’re doing." Iolaus stared him down boldly. "Is it so hard for you to find lovers that you have to do this to get me to be your whore for a night? Poor Caesar."_

_His show of strength achieved nothing, however. Not even the smallest reaction from Caesar, who had obviously been expecting some show of defiance. "I want much more than that," Caesar told him. He moved behind Iolaus, reaching arms around his waist: a lover’s touch. "I’m not going to force you, Iolaus. You’re here of your own will. You’re going to give me pleasure," — his voice became a purr, almost hypnotic — "and receive it. You’ll want me, Iolaus." His hands moved over Iolaus’ codpiece, feeling the shape of Iolaus’ cock beneath. _

_With horror, Iolaus realised he was hard._

_"We both know it," Caesar concluded._

_With the evidence in Caesar’s hands, Iolaus couldn’t deny it._

_… Chained hand and foot to the wall, the pain tore a ragged cry from his throat. There was no respite; the heavy strap swung again. He cried out, again. He heard Caesar’s voice, but couldn’t concentrate enough to hear the words. Iolaus hated him._

_Yet, when it stopped, he found he missed it. His exhausted body felt hot and raw, his muscles stretched painfully. His face was wet with tears, though he hadn’t been aware of crying. And he was uncomfortably aware of his own, surely impossible, arousal. He was ready to beg … though for what, he couldn’t have said._

_His tormentor’s hands were cool on his burning skin and when he released Iolaus from his bonds the hunter fell to all fours gratefully, uncaring what Caesar might want from him now …_

Slowly, haltingly, the story came out. Iolaus sat between his lover’s thighs, his back resting against Hercules’ abdomen, Hercules’ arms around his waist. It was easier to talk when he wasn’t looking at the demigod, but he couldn’t have spoken at all without feeling his closeness. Hercules listened in silence, not interrupting, yet Iolaus was acutely aware of his lover’s feelings, communicated through the shifting tensions in his body.

At the end of the tale, finally, Iolaus twisted around to look up at him. He was terrified of what he might see in his lover’s face. He had been sure, all the time he was speaking, that Hercules must surely despise him for the things he had done … the things he had allowed his enemy to do to him. But when he steeled himself to meet Hercules’ eyes …

"Dear gods, Iolaus," Hercules whispered. He took Iolaus’ face between his big hands and slowly bent toward him. Instinctively, Iolaus closed his eyes. The demigod kissed the closed lids gently, tasting the faintest trace of salt. He drew back a little, looking into his lover’s face. Then their lips met, and opened; the kiss was long and tender and loving.

Coming up for air, Hercules held his lover’s shoulders firmly and waited until Iolaus opened his eyes. "_This_ is why you felt guilty?" Hercules asked him incredulously. "That bastard _raped_ you every night for two weeks and you thought I’d be angry with _you_?"

Iolaus, despairing, shook his head. "Weren’t you listening, Herc? It wasn’t — " The light touch of a fingertip on his lips silenced him.

"I heard every word you said, love. If you didn’t want him, and he knew that, it was rape. The fact that he used threats instead of force can’t change that."

"But I enjoyed … "

"You hated every moment," Hercules disagreed, his voice like iron. "So much so that you’re almost suicidal, Iolaus. Sexual pleasure — that’s just your body, Iolaus. It’s a natural, automatic response."

Iolaus was shaking his head.

Hercules held him close. "Listen to me, will you? You’re worried that he’s changed you, or made you face something inside that you don’t like. But you did what you had to do, nothing else. And sometimes, when something hurts so much you can’t bear it, you learn to find some pleasure in it, because that’s the only way you can go on living. You shouldn’t feel guilty for wanting to live. And you _mustn’t_ feel responsible for an evil man’s actions."

"But — "

"But _what_? I love you, Iolaus. The thought of everything you’ve been through … " He broke off, his fists clenched behind Iolaus’ back. When he could trust his voice again, Hercules added, "And you’re still going through it now, believing his lies." He shook his head firmly. "Don’t you dare, Iolaus. Don’t let him win."

This time it was Iolaus who initiated the kiss.


End file.
